CHAPTER VIIIDIGGING IN
“Well, we’rein the movies—we’re working in the moving pictures.”
“Moving pictures? You’re working in moving pictures? What do you mean, you’re working in moving pictures?”
“We’re working at a place—they call it a studio—acting in little plays—dramas, and comedies—a camera takes pictures while we act, and the pictures are shown in those five- and ten-cent theatres that are all around the town, mostly on Third and Ninth Avenues and Fourteenth Street—such high-class neighborhoods.”
“Those dreadful places? I wouldn’t be seen going into one of them.”
Yes, that was the attitude in those dark and dismal days when David signed that contract with the Biograph Company. For one year now, those movies so covered with slime and so degraded would have to come first in his thoughts and affections. That was only fair to the job. But only one who had loved the theatre as he had, and had dreamed as he had of achieving success therein, could know what heartaches this strange new affiliation was to bring to him. Times came, agonizing days, when he would have given his life to be able to chuck the job. Mornings when on arising he would gaze long, long moments outthe window, apparently seeing nothing—then the barely audible remark, “I think I’ll ’phone and say I cannot come.” On such days he dragged heavy, leaden feet to 11 East Fourteenth Street.
And there was an evening when, returning home after a drab day at the studio, and finding his modest ménage festive with ferns and wild flowers, he became so annoyed that with one swoop he gathered up nature and roughly jammed her into the waste paper basket. A visiting relative who’d helped gather the flowers worried so over the strange procedure that I had to explain—“It’s those pictures; you know they’re just the fringe of acting.”
The emotions that would sweep over us at times! How our pride was hurt! How lacking in delicacy people could be! With what a patronizing air the successful and prosperous actor-friend would burst into the studio! Mr. Griffith would say, “Well, how about it? If you’re hanging around this summer, how would you like to work with me a bit?” Polite and evasive the reply, “Well, you see, I’m awfully busy just now, have several offers and—well—when I’m signed up I’ll drop around again.” But we, in the know, understood that all the King’s horses and all the King’s men could not induce such to join our little band of movie actors. We were always conscious of the fact that we were in this messy business because everything else had failed—because nobody had seemed to want us, and we just hadn’t been able to hang on any longer.
Jeanie Macpherson, Marion Sunshine, Edwin August, Alfred Paget, Blanche Sweet and Charles West in a scene from “From Out the Shadow.” The brilliant social world of early movie days.(Seep. 71)
Jeanie Macpherson, Marion Sunshine, Edwin August, Alfred Paget, Blanche Sweet and Charles West in a scene from “From Out the Shadow.” The brilliant social world of early movie days.(Seep. 71)
Jeanie Macpherson, Marion Sunshine, Edwin August, Alfred Paget, Blanche Sweet and Charles West in a scene from “From Out the Shadow.” The brilliant social world of early movie days.
(Seep. 71)
“Murphy’s,” where members of Biograph’s original stock company consumed hearty breakfasts when Jersey bound.(Seep. 83)
“Murphy’s,” where members of Biograph’s original stock company consumed hearty breakfasts when Jersey bound.(Seep. 83)
“Murphy’s,” where members of Biograph’s original stock company consumed hearty breakfasts when Jersey bound.
(Seep. 83)
But David buckled to the job like a true sport. It washis joband he would dignify it. The leaden mornings came to be quite the exception to the rule. Many days were greeted with bright and merry song. And so, firm and unshakeable in our determination to do the most with what we had, we dismissed the silly sensitive business and set to work.
What we had to work with was this: a little studio where interior scenes were taken, and exteriors also, for there was little money for traveling expenses—Fort Lee, Greenwich, and the Atlantic Highlands comprised our early geographical horizon. A few actors, a willing and clever camera man, a stage carpenter, and a scenic artist, comprised the working force. Funny studio! Interesting old workshop! “The Last Leaf’s” ballroom!
The outer doors of the building opened into a broad hall from which on the left as one entered, a door gave into Mr. Dougherty’s office; on the right was another door—the entrance to the bookkeeping department. An old colonial stairway on this same side led up to the projection room and other offices. The spacious hall of the main floor ended with double doors opening into the studio.
There, first to meet the eye—unless one stumbled on it before seeing it—for it completely blocked the entrance—was a heavy rolling platform on which the camera, poised atop of its tripod, was set. So if the studio doors chanced to invite you during the taking of a scene, you would have to remain put in the few feet of space between the platform and the doors until the scene was finished. Usually there would be some one to keep you company in your little niche.
It was an easy matter in those days to get into the studio. No cards of announcement were needed—no office boy insulted you, no humiliation of waiting, as to-day. A ring of the bell and in you’d go, and Bobbie Harron would greet you if he chanced to be near by. Otherwise, any one of the actors would pass you the glad word.
On an ordinary kitchen chair a bit to one side of thecamera, Mr. Griffith usually sat when directing. The actors when not working lingered about, either standing or enjoying the few other kitchen chairs. During rehearsals actors sat all over the camera stand—it was at least six feet square—and as the actors were a rather chummy lot, the close and informal intimacy disturbed them not the least.
A “scene” was set back center, just allowing passage room. What little light came through the few windows was soon blocked by dusty old scenery. On the side spaces of the room and on the small gallery above, the carpenters made scenery and the scene painters painted it—scenery, paint pots, and actors were all huddled together in one friendly chaos. We always had to be mindful of our costumes. To the smell of fresh paint and the noise of the carpenters’ hammers, we rehearsed our first crude little movies and in due time many an old literary classic.
Rolls of old carpet and bundles of canvas had to be climbed over in wending one’s way about. To the right of the camera a stairway led to the basement where there were three small dressing-rooms; and no matter how many actors were working in a picture those three dark little closets had to take care of them all. The developing or “dark” room adjoined the last dressing-room, and all opened into a cavernous cellar where the stage properties were kept. Here at the foot of the stairs and always in every one’s way, the large wardrobe baskets would be deposited. And what a scramble for something that would half-way fit us when the costumes arrived!
We ate our lunches in the dingy basement, usually seated on the wardrobe baskets. Squatted there, tailor-fashion, on their strong covers, we made out pretty well. On days when we had numbers of extra people, our lunchboy, little Bobbie Harron, would arrange boards on wooden horses, and spread a white cloth, banquet fashion. Especially effective this, when doing society drama, and there would be grand dames, financiers, and magnates, to grace the festive board.
In a back corner of the studio reposed a small, oak, roll-top desk, which the new director graced in the early morning hours when getting things in shape, and again in the evening when he made out the actors’ pay checks. When the welcome words came from the dark room, “All right, everybody; strike!” the actors rushed to the roll-top, and clamored for vouchers—we received our “pay” daily. Then the actor rushed his “make-up” off, dressed, passed to the bookkeeper’s window in the outer office, presented his voucher, and Herman Bruenner gave him his money. And then to eat, and put away a dollar towards the week’s rent, and to see a movie for ten cents!
A little group of serious actors soon began to report daily for work. As yet no one had a regular salary except the director and camera man. “Principal part” actors received five and “extras” three dollars.
In August this first year Mr. Griffith began turning out two releases a week, usually one long picture, eight to eleven hundred feet, and one short picture, four to five hundred feet. The actors who played the principal parts in these pictures were Eddie Dillon, Harry Salter, Charles Inslee, Frank Gebhardt, Arthur Johnson, Wilfred Lucas, George Nichols, John Compson, Owen Moore, Mack Sennett, Herbert Pryor, David Miles, Herbert Yost, Tony O’Sullivan, and Daddy Butler. Of the women Marion Leonard, Florence Lawrence, and myself played most of the leading parts, while Mabel Stoughton, Florence Auer,Ruth Hart, Jeanie Macpherson, Flora Finch, Anita Hendry, Dorothy West, Eleanor Kershaw (Mrs. Tom Ince), and Violet Mersereau helped out occasionally. Gladys Egan, Adele DeGarde, and Johnny Tansy played the important child parts.
Though I speak of playing “principal parts,” no one had much chance to get puffed up, for an actor having finished three days of importance usually found himself on the fourth day playing “atmosphere,” the while he decorated the back drop. But no one minded. They were a good-natured lot of troupers and most of them were sincerely concerned in what they were doing. David had a happy way of working. He invited confidence and asked and took suggestions from any one sufficiently interested to make them. His enthusiasm became quite infectious.
In the beginning Marion Leonard and I alternated playing “leads.” She played the worldly woman, the adventuress, and the melodramatic parts, while I did the sympathetic, the wronged wife, the too-trusting maid, waiting, always waiting, for the lover who never came back. But mostly I died.
Our director, already on the lookout for a new type, heard of a clever girl out at the Vitagraph, who rode a horse like a western cowboy and who had had good movie training under Mr. Rainous. He wanted to see her on the screen before an audience. Set up in a store on Amsterdam Avenue and 160th Street was a little motion picture place. It had a rough wooden floor, common kitchen chairs, and the reels unwound to the tin-panny shriek of a pianola. After some watchful waiting, the stand outside the theatre—the sort of thing sandwich men carry—finally announced “The Dispatch Bearer,” a Vitagraph with Florence Lawrence.So, living near by, after dinner one night we rushed over to see it.
It was a good picture. Mr. Griffith concluded he would like to work with Mr. Rainous for a while and learn about the movies. For one could easily see that besides having ability Florence Lawrence had had excellent direction.
Well, David stole little Florrie, he did. With Harry Salter as support in his nefarious errand, he called on Miss Lawrence and her mother, and offered the Vitagraph girl twenty-five dollars a week, regular. She had been receiving fifteen at Vitagraph playing leading parts, sewing costumes, and mending scenery canvas. She was quite overcome with Mr. Griffith’s spectacular offer, readily accepted, and by way of celebrating her new prosperity, she drew forth from under the bed in the little boarding-house room, her trombone—or was it a violin?—and played several selections. As a child, Miss Lawrence, managed by her mother, and starred as “Baby Flo, the child wonder-whistler” had toured the country, playing even the “tanks.”
Immediately she joined the Biograph, Florence Lawrence was given a grand rush. But she never minded work. The movies were as the breath of life to her. When she wasn’t working in a picture, she was in some movie theatre seeing a picture. After the hardest day, she was never too tired to see the new release and if work ran into the night hours, between scenes she’d wipe off the make-up and slip out to a movie show.
Her pictures became tremendously popular, and soon all over the country Miss Lawrence was known as “The Biograph Girl.” It was some years before the company allowed the names of actors to be given out, hence “Biograph Girl” was the only intelligent appellation. AfterMiss Lawrence left Biograph, Mary Pickford fell heir to the title.
Miss Lawrence’s early releases show her versatility. Two every week for a time: “Betrayed by a Handprint,” “The Girl and the Outlaw,” “Behind the Scenes,” “The Heart of Oyama,” “Concealing a Burglar,” “Romance of a Jewess,” “The Planter’s Wife,” “The Vaquero’s Vow,” “The Call of the Wild,” “The Zulu’s Heart,” “The Song of the Shirt,” “Taming of the Shrew,” “The Ingrate,” “A Woman’s Way.”
Like Mary Pickford, Miss Lawrence was an awfully good sport about doing stunts. One day a scene was being filmed with Miss Lawrence thrown tummy-wise across a horse’s saddled back. As the horse dashed down the roadway he came so close to the camera that we who were watching breathlessly, for one moment closed our eyes, for Miss Lawrence’s blond head just missed the camera by a few inches.
Rainy August days forced us to work in the studio. Mr. Griffith had read a story by Jack London called “Just Meat.” He changed the name to “For Love of Gold” and let it go at that. We had no fear of lawsuits from fractious authors those days.
The story was about two thieves, who returned home with the latest spoils, get suspicious of each other and each, unknown to the other, poisons the other’s coffee and both die. The big scenes which were at the table when the men become distrustful of each other could be told only through facial expression. “Ah,” puzzled Mr. Director, “how can I show what these two men are thinking? I must have the camera closer to the actors—that’s what Imust do—and having only two actors in these scenes, I can.”
Up to this time, every scene had been a long shot—that is, the floor—the carpet—the greensward—showed yards in front of the actors’ feet. But Mr. Griffith knew he couldn’t show nine feet of floor and at the same time register expression. So to his camera man he said: “Now don’t get excited, but listen. I’m going to move the camera up, I’m going to show very little floor, but I’m going to show a large, full-length figure; just get in the actors’ feet—get the toes—one foot of foreground will do.
“Well, we’ve never done anything like that—how do you think that’s going to look?—a table with a man on each side filling up the whole screen, nearly.”
“We’ll do it—we’ll never get anywhere if we don’t begin to try new things.”
The burglars were screened so big that every wicked thought each entertained was plainly revealed. Everybody came to like the idea afterwards, especially the actors.
Along in November, Mr. Griffith began work on a series of domestic comedies—the “Jones Pictures.” Florence Lawrence played Mrs. Jones, and John Compson, Mr. Jones. Their movie marital début was in “A Smoked Husband.” The Jones movies were probably the first to achieve success as a series.